


The game is on

by rhapsodybree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16672561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodybree/pseuds/rhapsodybree
Summary: A teething baby Watson, a tired John, a working Mary and Sherlock's "efforts" to help... by taking the baby to her first crime scene.





	The game is on

A flustered John Watson was endeavoring to do several things at once and his efforts were being severely hampered by the whimpering unhappy baby in his arms that refused to be put down.

_Of all the days for Mary to have the long shift._

Pressing a kiss to her soft blonde hair, he filled the kettle with some difficulty. Water on the boil, he couldn't suppress the sigh that escaped when the doorbell rang. Jostling the baby in his arms, he opened the door and was ignored as Sherlock Holmes brushed right by him. "Hello to you too," he muttered under his breath.

Entering the kitchen once again, he recognised that all the elated Sherlock wanted to do was show off his last case.

"Really John it was so obvious it was laughable..."

Zoning out, he reached for the formula tin, struggling to open the childproof lid as his daughter wriggled impatiently in his arms. She became steadily grumpier as he rocked her and the kettle whistled its completion - all whilst the world's greatest detective continued his play by play narrative.

John snapped.

"A hand Sherlock?"

He was met by an expression of part annoyance at the interruption and part oblivion at the need for it.

"What?"

He took a deep steadying breath.

"Sherlock," he repeated. "Take the baby."

John didn't wait for permission as the whimpering eight month old was thrust into his best friend's arms. Turning his attention to making the bottle of milk, he relished the use of two hands. Twisting on the teat moments later it suddenly occurred to him that it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Turning his head, he was gobsmacked to discover three things: his daughter was being held to Sherlock's chest, sucked on his digit and was blessedly calm and quiet.

"Stop staring John. It doesn't become you."

"Uh um." He was speechless. "She's..."

"Of course," came the superior reply.

"How did you do it?" The first time father had no shame on asking.

"It was obvious from her red chin and drooling mouth that she is currently teething and teething babies need something to chew on, and hence my offer of a phalange."

John would have wiped the smug look of the prat's face if he wasn't so happy that his baby girl was settled. Uncertainty crossed his features as he considered his next move.

"Have a shower, wash the dishes and put the washing on John."

"How did you...?"

"You're wearing a creased shirt that you picked up from the floor where you threw it yesterday, your sink is overflowing and you keep looking at it, and the baby is wearing a jumpsuit appropriate for an older age," he reeled off swiftly. Moving to the couch, he settled down with the baby still in his arms, finger firmly in her mouth. "Young Watson and I will be just fine."

John opened and shut his mouth and then shrugged his shoulders in defeat. He could do with a few minutes to get some tasks done sans baby, and nothing bad could happen right?

"Yell if you need me," he ordered, attention already turning to the sink.

"Mmm," came the dismissive response.

Dishes washed up with a minimum of fuss and left to air dry on the dish rack, John checked on his partner and daughter to find the former in his mind palace and the latter sound asleep. He silently observed the scene with a smile. It always surprised him how comfortable his partner was around a baby. Suppressing a yawn, he shook himself alert.

Bringing forth the clothes basket he briskly loaded the onesies, shirts, leggings, cloths and endless other necessary baby paraphernalia into the washing machine before turning it on.

The bodies in the couch hadn't shifted and so he headed for a shower next. He truly appreciated the luxury of uninterrupted time as the hot water sluiced down his back feeling simply quite glorious.

Exiting the bathroom with a yawn, towel wrapped around his waist, he made his way to the bedroom. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he figured that he would rest here for just a moment.

* * *

Sherlock startled back to reality when his phone beeped. Automatically reaching into his pocket he remembered the warm body on his chest, the same warm body that protested when he attempted to withdraw his finger. He hastily inserted his finger once again as the baby continued to sleep, for he had experience enough of the decibel levels the cries of young Watson could attain when distressed.

It was slightly more cumbersome to retrieve his phone and navigate texts, however the inconvenience was swiftly forgotten upon reading the text from Lestrade.

**Locked room murder mystery. Need help.**

**-GL**

"John!" Leaping off the couch, he unconsciously held his sleeping package close as he sought his unresponsive partner. "A case!"

Finding the kitchen empty and the washing machine humming, he set off for the bathroom. Finding this also empty - but only recently as the condensation had yet to fully dissipate - he deduced that John must be in his bedroom.

Throwing open the door without warning the ready words on his lips died as he took in the sight before him.

John Hamish Watson was sound asleep.

His saw the general state of messiness, unmade bed and discarded clothes. He saw the bags beneath the eyes, the weary features and the shirt he held in his hand ready to put on. The evidence was clear that John too had experienced several sleepless nights.

Reaching forward he draped a soft yellow blanket with green giraffes over his partner and slipped from the room. He would simply have to make do with an alternative Watson as his assistant for this expedition.

Pondering the best form of transport he recalled the pouch John wore at times. Sourcing the equipment with ease, he entered his mind palace for assembly instructions. Gingerly placing the baby on the couch, easing his finger out with all the care of a bomb disposal team, he swiftly discovered that theory didn't always correlate to a successful practical. Inclined to call upon John for assistance, he stubbornly prevailed and seventeen minutes later baby Watson was firmly ensconced in the carrier and Sherlock felt inordinately proud of himself.

Shrugging on his Belstaff and tying his scarf with care, it occurred to him that the baby would also require protection against the weather. Eyeing the contraption before him with distaste, he made his way to the nursery and found a small jacket and beanie on hooks behind the door. Reaching for the items, he contented himself with sliding the sleeping baby's arms into the sleeves and plonking the fluffy brown bear creation on her head. He froze when she whimpered and nuzzled at his chest. Swiftly inserting his finger once again, he breathed a sigh of relief when the baby settled.

Scribbling a note and placing it on the kitchen cabinet, he slid the bottle of milk into his jacket pocket. Pausing an uncustomary moment at the door, he looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms.

"Well Rosamund," he whispered into the soft downy golden hair. "The game is on."

* * *

_Beep._

_Beep._

Beep.

John Watson struggled to open his eyes as the noise interrupted his slumber. What was that? Oh yes - the sound of the washing machine finishing. He'd put on a load of Rosie's clothes as Sherlock looked af...

He flew up in bed, now wide awake. Where was his daughter?

Throwing off the blanket, he flew into the living room and saw it empty. As was the kitchen. Backtracking to the nursery, he saw the cot empty. Returning to his bedroom, he checked his phone as he wrestled into a shirt. No messages. Ordering himself to breathe he returned to the kitchen, phone firmly in hand. Looking around for some form of evidence as to where his best friend and daughter had disappeared to he saw the bottle of milk he had prepped was gone and in its place was a post it note written in a familiar hand.

**Gone to crime scene. Text for directions. SH**

His fingers were already typing.

**Where is my daughter?**

**-JW**

The reply was instant.

**Corner of Mount and Park St.**

**-SH**

He was going to kill him.

* * *

Lestrade frowned as he surveyed the windows - all locked - and the door - also locked, and broken down by first responders to access the room - and then looked back at the corpse - glassy eyed and bloody from the gunshot wound. He had his technicians searching for the still missing gun.

He was going to need assistance with this one.

As if on cue he heard the insulting tones of Sherlock Holmes drifting up the stairs. "... you're lowering the IQ of the street!"

Turning with a greeting, the words never left his lips for the man who stepped into the door, coat billowing, had a baby strapped to his chest. His jaw dropped.

"Yes thank you for stating the obvious," dismissed Sherlock.

Lestrade tried to gather his wits as the detective passed him enroute to the body. "Is John with you?" he queried, looking into the hall behind him as if the doctor would suddenly materialise from thin air.

"Glove," came the curt response as the question was summarily ignored.

"Glove?" The Inspector turned to find Sherlock thrusting his hand out to him imperiously.

"Well I can't very well get it myself can I?"

A closer look on Lestrade's part and he saw that not only was the baby sleeping, but she was also sucking on a finger provided by the great Sherlock Holmes.

An irate Sherlock Holmes it must be said.

"Any moment if you please. Right hand pocket."

He found himself complying and stood back to watch as the consulting detective leaned down to examine the wound, seemingly oblivious to the blood inches away from the baby. Almost over balancing as he rose, he then strode to the battered door.

"Ah ha."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

The personnel in the room froze at the loud voice and all eyes turned to the familiar doctor that stormed into the crime scene.

"Hello John."

* * *

Standing outside the building, Sherlock couldn't understand the anger being fired in his direction from his irate partner.

"You can't just take Rosie to crime scenes Sherlock - especially not when she's a baby. You should have woken me up."

"You needed the sleep," shrugged Sherlock. "And Lestrade needed help. Give your daughter your finger."

John found himself starting to obey, even as his brain struggled to follow the sudden shift in conversation. "What?"

"I would think it obvious that I need to text the idiots how it happened as someone dragged me out before I could explain." Sherlock looked from father to daughter expectantly.

John huffed as he stepped closer and slid his finger between the baby's gums. He released a breath as she sucked and slept on. He was close enough to see the text sent to Lestrade.

**Fishing line through keyhole. Arrest brother-in-law.**

**-SH**

Sent was barely pressed before a grandmotherly voice was heard nearby. "Oh, it's so nice to see that nowadays!"

Both heads turned as one to see the elderly woman beaming at what she clearly thought was a family unit and it was more than John could bear in a single day.

"I'm not gay!"

His voice was pitched several octaves higher than usual and the elderly woman and detective stared at him.

Suddenly more tired than ever, John stuck his hand out for a cab.

* * *

Ensconced in their respective arm chairs at 221B Baker Street a short time later, John Watson watched Sherlock Holmes feed his daughter her bottle, the latest surprise of the day.

"Let's not mention this to Mary just yet eh," he said wearily, running a hand over his face.

"The case was barely a 3," scoffed Sherlock. "Having said that, your daughter was a very helpful assistant."

John snorted. "She was asleep the entire time."

The two men passed time comfortably, occupied by the now wide awake baby braced on Sherlock's knees, before John noticed the time with regret. "We should be getting along."

Sherlock admired the efficiency with which John adorned the baby carrier and slipped on his daughter's jacket and beanie, before taking her from his arms. Adjusting the straps, he offered her his finger to suck when she began to cry in protest and she silenced instantly.

Sherlock followed them down the stairs and stopped when John turned on the doorstep. "Er Sherlock. Thanks for today."

He swore he saw a faint blush on the detective's cheeks and heard the mumbled comments about godfatherly responsibilities or the like as he promptly shut the door and disappeared back into the house.

Feeling lighter at heart, John set off for home.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little scene that I could visualise happening before Mary dies and John moves back to 221B Baker St. Sherlock and John aren't together, but you can already see and know it's going to be just fine in the future.


End file.
